Alicia Roque Ruggieri (6 page)

“Take my place a moment,
Seisyll,” he instructed his companion.

“Aye, Calum.”  The young
man rose from his stool, yawning.  His red hair caught the moonlight as he
replaced his commander at the northern window post.

“Put your tiredness
behind you now, Seisyll.  You’re on duty,” Calum reminded the subordinate, his
voice holding his trademark quiet authority.  The young man straightened with
alertness.  Satisfied, Calum moved toward the stone stair leading down to the
yard.  He found his footing as well as any night creature, despite the lack of
light, and soon stood waiting for Deoradhan’s approach at the foot of the
tower.  The night lay calm around him, the chilly autumn breeze striking his
scarred cheeks, the owls’ hoots intermitting with the advancing clip-clop of
Deoradhan’s horse.

He stepped out of the
heavy shadows into the torchlight.  “Deoradhan, is something wrong?”

The younger man’s face
hardened in unnatural determination.  “Aye.”  He paused, stroking the gelding’s
dappled neck.  “But I go to right it.”

Silently, Calum studied
his friend, his eyes searching the other man’s countenance for signs of
goodness.  Never before had he failed to find that glimmer of the Image, yet
tonight he was hard-pressed to see it in Deoradhan’s scowling face.  Fear
plucked at Calum’s heart.

“Deoradhan, do not do
anything you will regret,” Calum murmured, clasping his friend’s forearm in
fidelity.

Deoradhan’s jaw set.  “I
won’t.  I never do anything.  That’s the cause of my trouble.”  He mounted his
horse.  “Don’t worry about me, Calum.  I’ll return or you’ll hear from me
within a fortnight, if all goes well.”

“‘If all goes well?’ 
What are—?”  Calum’s concern increased.

“Don’t fear for me,”
Deoradhan directed, smiling a little.  “What do I have to lose?  My life is
worthless here anyway.  A stale perpetual survival.  Farewell.”

“Where are you—?”
Calum’s inquiry died as Deoradhan heeled his mount forward toward the opening
gate.  Muscular arms limp by his sides, Calum watched his friend disappear into
the darkness.

God, I am afraid for
him.  Watch over him; protect him for my sake and Your own as his legitimate
Father.  Answer him before he calls, I pray.

Turning, the commander
of Oxfield’s guards meandered up the tower stair.
 O You who save and
redeem, not one of those whom Your Father has given You will You lose.

9

“Bethan, someone is here
to see you.”

From her crouching
position on the stone floor, Bethan twisted to look up at Haylee but continued
to scrub the flags.  “Who?” she asked, frankly curious.  In the nearly two
months since she had come to Oxfield, no one had come to visit her, and she
didn’t expect anyone.

Haylee set her heavy
basket down.  “A miller, I think.  He said to tell you that Winfred had news
for you.  I met him on my way back with these apples.  They’re the last of this
fall’s crop.  I thought the storm might knock them down.”  She pushed back the
damp shawl covering her head and dried her moist face on her apron.

Bethan put her rag back
into the soapy water.  “Winfred?” she said aloud.  “What news could he bring
for me?”

“He didn’t say.”  Haylee
shrugged.  “Hurry back, though.  I need your help with coring these apples.” 
Her golden hair wisped around her face, accentuating the younger, frailer
girl’s weariness.

Bethan nodded and rose
to her feet, moving toward the door.  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she
promised.  “Wait to do the apples ‘til I return, Haylee.  I think Cook has some
sewing for you to work on.”  Bethan knew the needlework would give the younger
girl a needed respite from the often-backbreaking kitchen chores. 

At the entryway, Bethan
paused to splash her sweaty face and arms with cool water from the bucket.  Her
skin felt relieved, but her mind burned.  What news did Winfred bring?  She
feared ‘twould be no good news to travel so far from home to Oxfield.

God is our refuge and
strength, a very present help in trouble.  Therefore we will not fear…
  At
times like this, Bethan felt immensely grateful that her father had repeated
his own memorized Scripture to her and her sisters as they went about their day
and before they slept at night, even though her mother objected to it.  She
moved toward the door, willing herself to lift the latch and step outside into
the cold October drizzle.

She saw Winfred standing
under the ledge of the dairy roof, his knit cap snug around his fair-haired
head.  A descendent of the Saxons who had invaded Britain half a century ago,
Winfred’s heavy-boned frame towered a head above any native Briton, drawing the
curious eyes of other servants.  After a quick stare, however, they hastened on
with their work, eager to escape from the pending storm.

Bethan ran toward the
dairy and arrived breathless.  She offered Winfred a hopeful smile.  “Winfred! 
How is your family?  What news from the West Lea?”

Winfred cast a nervous
glance down at her, playing with the ends of his red-gold beard with the
forefinger and thumb of his right hand.  “My family is all well, but I fear the
same cannot be said of yours, Bethan.”

Her heart choked her. 
“What has happened, Winfred?”  She knew their close neighbor would never have
worried her with minute calamities.  This must be something very bad, indeed.

He paused, as if to give
her a moment to prepare herself.  “Your mama is very sick with the fever,
Bethan.  A woman from the village has been nursing her, but now…” He sought for
the right words before going on.

Bethan felt anxiety goad
her.  “Now…?” she pressed, catching his forearm in her hand.  “Now, what,
Winfred?”

His eyes, blue as the
ocean his ancestors sailed over, grew soft with compassion.  “Before I left for
Oxfield, the woman asked if I would bring you home when I came to Oxfield with
my payment for Lord Drustan.”

“But what does Papa say,
Winfred?  Does he want me to come home?”  Without warning, happiness, not
dread, sprouted within Bethan. 
I’m going home!

Winfred looked puzzled. 
“Your papa left to work on some land north for the harvest.  I thought you knew
that.”

Bethan’s breath
shriveled.  “Nay, I didn’t,” she whispered, swallowing hard.  “When do you
leave for the West Lea, Winfred?”

“I have to speak of my
contract terms with the lord first.”  He turned his eyes toward the sky,
darkening and building into heavy clouds by the moment.  “And I cannot leave
until after the storm passes over.  I came on foot.”

Bethan nodded.  “So
perhaps in two days or so?”

“Aye,” Winfred
assented.  “If Thor agrees,” he added, referring to the one who Bethan knew to
be the Saxon god of thunder.

“Alright.  You know
where to find me, aye?  In the kitchen.”

“Aye.”

~ ~ ~

“Ready, lad?”  Calum
lifted the enormous leather bag with both hands and waited for the young guard
to prepare himself.  Moments earlier, Calum had filled the sack a quarter full
of sand before adding the rusted chain mail tunic.  He’d enlisted Marcus to
help him with cleaning today, knowing that the exercise would build the
dark-haired young man’s strength.  True, Marcus, the grandson of a Roman
cavalry officer who had remained when the legions departed, already contained a
sinewy power in his lanky arms, but Calum saw potential in this lad for
leadership and wanted him to strive for excellence.

Six feet of the weapon
house floor spread out between the two men.  Marcus braced himself, holding his
arms out, hands stretched widely.  “Ready,” he said, eyes focused on the sack.

With an easy movement,
Calum tossed the sack to his assistant.  Marcus caught it, staggering a
little.  “Heavy,” he commented.

“Aye, ‘tis,” Calum
smiled, knowing the sack weighed nearly half as much as the youth did.  “But
the sand will get the rust off that mail.  ‘Twill be good as ever.  Throw it
back,” he instructed.  The young man obeyed, heaving the bag across the short
expanse.

“Good,” Calum praised. 
Marcus smiled back, pleased, and readied himself again.

The boy’s always on
his guard, always prepared.  It does my heart good to see that in him, for
he’ll need it if he’s ever to take over for me.
  Marcus did not yet know of
Calum’s plan; none did, save the potter Bricius. 
No one else need know for
a while.
  He would bide his time, waiting until an acceptable day arrived,
when he would be at liberty to pursue his heart’s desire.  For now, he would
work while he waited, prompt in doing what came to his hand to accomplish,
whether ‘twas cleaning rusty mail or sweeping out the guardhouse.

“Step back a pace or so,
Marcus,” he said aloud.  “This is too easy for you.  We’ll stretch your
abilities today.”

~ ~ ~

Kick.  Throw.  Dip and
smooth.  Throw.  Kick.  The repetitive motions harmonized with the potter’s
muttered song:

“Be thou solely chief
love of my heart,

Let there be none other,
O High King of heaven.”

And there was none
other.  At one time, he could not have sung the hymn with an easy conscience. 
But now Bricius sang with a heart unfettered by possession of people or things
or knowledge.  A heart at liberty to love as infinitely as any mortal could and
yet never be owned by his passions.

Blessed are the poor
in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…
  And what was that kingdom
but Love eternally, pulsing from the Creator’s heart through the Redeemer’s cross,
paving the way to the throne of grace?  How long Bricius had taken to learn
such an easy lesson!  How many never learned that the way to the Father’s knee
ran through His heart, not through His head!

The potter continued his
movements, now as natural to him as any instinct, barely noticing when a shadow
fell across the floor from the doorway.

“I’ll be with you in a
moment,” he said, hands adding the last smoothing strokes to the pot.  ‘Twas a
fine one, this, with thin walls and a slim neck, like the ones his
great-grandfather had made in the days of the Romans.  With a satisfied sigh,
Bricius rose from his pottery wheel and turned to greet his guest.

To his surprise, Lady
Tarian waited just inside the doorway.  “Good afternoon, Bricius,” she said, and
the potter thought he heard a note of fearful courage in this woman’s voice.

“Good afternoon, my
lady.”  Bricius bowed and then waited for her to explain the reason for her
visit.

Instead, she moved
gracefully a few feet inside the workshop, her eyes intent on the pot on which
he had been working.  “You do fine work, Bricius.  This is a lovely.”

“Thank you, my lady. 
I’m honored that you think it so.”

The noblewoman turned
from the pottery wheel and met Bricius’ gaze.  “I have heard that you conduct mass
outdoors each Sunday.”

“Aye, my lady, I lead
the worship.”

“And what qualifies you
to do this?  Are you trained as a priest?”

Bricius smiled.  “I
lived as a monk for many years, my lady, and studied the Scriptures and the
writings of holy men.”  He paused before gently continuing.  “But as for what
qualifies me, ‘tis what qualifies any man or woman for the work to which he has
been called.  As the seer declares, ‘I was no prophet, nor a prophet’s son, but
I was a herdsman and a dresser of sycamore figs.  But the LORD took me from
following the flock.’”

The young woman remained
silent momentarily, then turned her imperturbable eyes to the potter.  “I would
like to join you at your mass,” she stated.  “This Sunday.”

“We would be glad to
have you, my lady.  We meet at the ancient oak at the meadow’s edge.  I could
have someone lead you.”

“That will be
unnecessary, thank you.  At dawn?”

“Aye.”

Bricius watched as the
lady moved to the door.  At the archway, she turned.  “Thank you, Bricius.  I
shall look forward to this.”  With that, she stepped out, leaving the potter to
scratch his beard in amazement.

10

Oxfield

Deoradhan’s every sense
informed him of the tiniest nuances in his surroundings.  Around him, the
once-verdant oaks and elms had shed their leaves, baring shivering trunks to
the deep autumn wind, unmasking the forest.  Alasdair’s hooves moved with a
muffled thud across the smooth, well-worn path, their sound combining with that
of insects and soft bird calls.  Deoradhan sniffed, and the scent of past
winters’ decaying leaves filled his nostrils, combining with the familiar smell
of horse sweat and warm leather.  He could taste the pungent odors with his
tongue, nearly.  His bridle reins fit smoothly, securely in his fingers, and he
moved in unison with his horse as they traveled down the path.

He felt at home here in
the woodland, as at peace as he had ever felt.  Here, no mocking voice
incorrectly called him the illegitimate spawn of the high king, intending to
insult the Pendragon but injuring Deoradhan deeply.  Or rather inflaming the
wound that already cankered in his heart.

I believed their
lies.  And then his.
  Hardly blinking, letting Alasdair guide him down the
shadowy path, Deoradhan permitted his thoughts to wander unrestrained into the
forest of his past…

The little boy felt
afraid.  The bright torches shining from the wall combined with the rich
tapestries and heavy laughter, overwhelming him like a towering ocean wave.  He
wanted his papa to come and reach for him, pick him up in his great, strong
arms and protect him.  Mama should come, too, with her loving hands and
laughing smile.  Why had Mama given him away to papa’s warrior?  The lad had
cried for her to hold him, but she hadn’t listened to him!  Fire had burned all
around him.  Fire was a friend, wasn’t it?  To keep him warm and safe from wild
beasts?

Where was he?  Who
were these frightful Big People, wearing strange clothing and speaking stranger
words?  At least, Papa’s warrior stayed with him, gripping him in his mighty
arms.  With all the strength in his chubby fingers, the child clung to the
man’s forearms.

But wait.  The
warrior carried him forward toward a great chair, carved with the heads of
animals and covered with furs.  A man sat in the chair.  He was a young Big
Person, not as old as Papa, with a beard that matched his yellow hair.  The man
wore gold things on his head and fingers and around his neck.

“Come here, little
one,” he spoke and smiled.  When the toddler saw the smile, he didn’t feel as
afraid; the man seemed so kind and gentle.  Like Papa.

Deoradhan shook his head
defiantly.  He would allow no tender thoughts to cloud his attitude toward
Arthur.  Purposely, he turned to another, more painful memory.

He had always
disliked the boy.  Now he had a reason and a good one at that.  In disbelief,
Deoradhan stared at his wrestling partner Modred and wondered if the lad had
made his comment only to distract him from glorying in his victory minutes
earlier.

“What did you say?”
Deoradhan barely forced the question out of his eleven-year-old lips.

His swarthy
countenance patient, Modred repeated his remark.  “I said that you inherited
our father’s brute strength.  I fear I rather take after my mother in that
respect.”  With a graceful shrug, the slim youth, older than Deoradhan by three
or four years, turned and began the stroll from the training grounds back to
the fortress walls.

In two bounds,
Deoradhan sprang in front of his companion.  “Stay,” he commanded, grasping
Modred’s slender shoulders.  “What do you mean by ‘our father’?  Of whom do you
speak?”  His heart pounded in his chest as with vigorous exercise.  “Your
father is unknown.  You grew up with your half-brothers in Orkney; you came
here to train under your uncle, the high king.”

Modred shook his
shoulders free.  “Others may be ignorant of who fathered me, but I am not.  And
he is your father as well.”

At Deoradhan’s look
of complete confusion, Modred smiled, showing beautiful white teeth.  “Arthur,
you fool.  I thought you knew.”

Deoradhan could
barely breathe.  “Arthur?  Are you sure?” he finally choked out.

Modred sneered.  “Am
I sure?  Is the sky blue?”  He resumed walking, and Deoradhan woodenly matched
Modred’s elegant prowl.  “My mother, Lady Morgana, told me this.  She is a
druidess and is never wrong.”

“She knows about me,
too?” Deoradhan could barely believe it.  He had never known who he was or
whither he had come, except for a few shadowy memories that elusively haunted
him.  Infrequently, the lad had dreamed of finding his parents to be high-born
British Romans or even Irish royalty, who had perhaps set him afloat across the
Irish sea to save him from some horrible doom.  Like Moses, of whom the
Christian priests spoke.  Never had he really believed ‘twas the high king who
had sired him, albeit illegitimately.  Pride and shame coursed through every
fiber of his lanky body.

“No, my mother only
told me about myself.  I assumed that of you.  Think about it, though: your
story fits the mold.”  Modred directed his serene blue eyes to Deoradhan’s
troubled ones and waited for a response.

An unknown birth.  An
upbringing at court fit for a prince’s son.  The tutoring, the training, the
numerous gifts from Arthur.  So much that had gone unexplained now made sense.

Deoradhan nodded.  “I
believe you,” he said to the young man whom he knew to be his half-brother.  “I
must go speak with the king.”

And he had spoken with
Pendragon.  Deoradhan gritted his teeth, remembering.  Arthur had denied the
charge, gently, as a man might break the neck of a favorite bird.

The boy charged into
the Great Hall, his chest nearly exploding with conflicting emotions, too
weighty for such a youngster to understand or name.  His bare feet slapped the
brown stones, stinging, as he ran toward the dais, the raised area where the
king’s throne resided.  The cavernous room was vacant, though, except for the
few feathery residents in the heavy-beamed ceiling, who greeted Deoradhan with
surprised twitters and flutters. 

Seeing no one, he
slowed, his enthusiasm draining.  The boy dropped onto one of the hall’s long
benches to catch his breath.  He could hear female singing from outside, the
sweet sounds wafting through the windows, mingling with the cool spring
breeze.  Without looking, he knew the impulsive young queen must have taken her
women outside to sew.  He could picture them dappling the grass with their
skirts of imported dyed fabric, their laughing smiles glowing beneath locks of
chestnut, flax, and truffle.

He swung his legs
slowly back and forth.  His feet just brushed the floor; at eleven, he could
not boast of tall stature like the fierce warrior Gawaine, whom he admired from
afar, barely daring to greet the man when he passed him in the yard. 
Deoradhan’s frame promised a more moderate height with a sturdiness that would
have spoken of Saxon ancestry, were it not for his rich auburn hair, the color
of damp autumn leaves, and his Celtic blue-green eyes.  In a way, he felt glad
for these obvious traits, for they showed him to be a true Briton, whose roots
grew from deep within this loamy soil, not a transplant from other lands.  How
deep, even he did not know at the time.

  Deoradhan breathed
the fresh air appreciatively, letting his gaze wander over the long empty
tables and benches that filled the hall, toward the dais, until at last they
rested with surprise on a lone figure standing silently looking out one of the
windows.  The sunlight reflected off the man’s circlet and long, wavy hair,
illuminating the gold of them both before it washed over his straight shoulders
and fell to the floor, puddling around his leather-encased feet.  He leaned
upon a crutch; Deoradhan knew this supported the leg he had injured in the last
eastern skirmish against the persistent Saxons.

Heart in his throat,
Deoradhan approached the king.  At that young age, he did not know yet how to
make small-talk before broaching a turbulent subject.  Hesitant and eager at
once, the boy waited until he was within arm’s reach of the dignified man. 
Then in his childish soprano, he whispered.  “Father?”

Arthur froze.  He
turned slowly, and Deoradhan felt alarm at the relief and confusion written
across the king’s kind face.  Finally, the older man spoke.  “No, I’m not your
father, lad.”

Hurt ripped into
Deoradhan’s chest like a northern dagger.  “But Modred—”

The king cut in
gently.  “Don’t always listen to Modred.  His words are elegant, but like a
sinuous adder. he is not to be trusted.” 

“But—”

Arthur took
Deoradhan’s small hand in his, and Deoradhan felt how callused and powerful the
king’s fingers were, how well they must wield the battle-axe and sword.  With a
hand to the lad’s shoulder, Arthur guided him to sit beside him on one of the
long benches of the hall. He was silent for long moments, then turned to the
vulnerable Deoradhan, smiling compassionately.  “You are an orphan, Deoradhan. 
Your father was one of my best companions, a valiant man.  But he is dead now,
and so is your mother.”  He sighed.  “I can honor your father most through
caring for you as I would my own.”

Deoradhan nodded
slowly, feeling a bit bereft but relieved as well.  Honorable though ‘twould be
to have the high king for a sire, no boy wished to be illegitimate, without
inheriting his father’s name or the respect of his fellow countrymen.  He
opened his mouth to ask the king more about his parents, but Arthur laid a hand
on Deoradhan’s shoulder.

“Sometimes ‘tis best
to let the past lie quietly, lad,” he stated in his soft, steady voice.  “See
if you can’t get in some more practicing with the sword before the sun sets.”

And he had secured more
practicing with his sword, and with his spear, arrows, and in wrestling as
well.  Now, more than eight years after that conversation, Deoradhan could feel
his own strength as he rode through the wood.  He was a warrior, truly, but
without a liege-lord, just as he was a prince without a kingdom to call his
own.  A scholar as well, thanks to the education Arthur had provided both at
his own court and in Gaul.  Deoradhan wryly smiled, thinking of how eagerly the
king had sent him away to study once Deoradhan learned the truth.

Like an unexpected
summer rainstorm, the stranger cantered through the Pendragon’s gates at
sundown.  He gave his horse, a heavy-boned mare lathered with sweat, to a
stableboy’s care and moved up the stone steps of the hall with surety of
purpose written across his countenance.  His clothes showed the dust of travel
but were sewn finely.  Over his tunic, he wore a polished coat of
well-cared-for mail, and an ornamental belt held a well-forged sword to his
waist.

Deoradhan and two
other boys had been playing a game with knucklebones on the steps of the hall
when the stranger’s footsteps sounded on the stones.  They had heard him ride
up but had not paid attention.  Many warriors came and went frequently through
the gates of Camelot.  Only when the newcomer’s path to the door disturbed
their game did the boys notice his presence.

“Who is that?”
Percivale, a scrawny lad of twelve, wondered aloud as the man strode up the
steps toward the hall doors.  “He’s a champion for sure.  Look at his belt.”

“A gift from his
liege for valor, ‘tis certain,” Alwyn remarked with confidence, his serious
brown eyes trained on the stranger’s back as the man spoke with the guards at
the door.

Deoradhan remained
quiet.  The warrior seemed familiar to him somehow, like someone he had met in
a dream or the dream of a dream.  As the guards permitted the man to enter the
hall, Deoradhan rose to his feet.

“Where are you
going?  The game’s not finished,” Percivale said.

“I want to know who
that man is,” Deoradhan answered, clambering up the steps on his skinny
thirteen-year-old legs.

Alwyn leapt to his
feet, nimble as a fay.  “I’m coming, too.”

“Nobody wants to
finish the game?” Percivale asked, disappointment in his pallid face.  When
neither Deoradhan nor Alwyn sat back down, Percivale stood.  “Alright.  I may
as well come, too.  Who knows, the stranger might have a good story to tell.”

Deoradhan and Alywn
smiled at him and ran up the steps, into the hall, the knucklebones forgotten. 
The helmeted guards ignored the boys, used to their tireless activity, knowing
that their innocent exuberance delighted the childless high king.  Indeed,
Deoradhan and his fellows were welcome to roam wherever they wished, learning
the ways of noble conduct from interaction with the lords and ladies who
stopped in Britain’s principal citadel.

The evening wall
torches did not burn yet.  With eyes accustomed to the brilliant afternoon
sunlight, Deoradhan could barely discern the figure of the warrior standing
before the king’s throne.  He led the other two boys toward the front of the
hall, more composed in Arthur’s presence but feeling curiosity prod him toward
unusual boldness.  Deoradhan moved around the stranger and knelt at the king’s
feet.  Immediately, he felt an affectionate hand rest upon his shoulder and
glanced up to see the high king smiling at him.  He grinned back, and then they
both turned their attention to the sober warrior before them.